


le chant de la pluie

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cardinal sends a few of his men to settle a score with Aramis and Constance finds her house full of musketeers again.</p><p>From a prompt at http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2113981#cmt2113981</p>
            </blockquote>





	le chant de la pluie

He sat back into the shadows of the carriage, seeing no need to watch. Adele’s pleading was repulsive to him, and he found himself wondering how he had ever allowed himself to be charmed by her: a frivolous trollop who allowed musketeers into her bed. He cleared his throat angrily, wishing the Red Guards would get on with it.

‘I love Aramis!’ she was shrieking. ‘I love Aramis!’ 

The shot came as a relief. Aramis, then. With the exception of Treville himself and his de facto lieutenant, Athos, who had so recently evaded execution by a whisker, one musketeer was much like another to the Cardinal. Nonetheless, the name was faintly familiar. Aramis. He filed it away in his mind, saving the information for an appropriate opportunity. 

It didn’t take long to find out. Within a few short weeks, a threat to the king’s life brought several of Treville’s rabble to the palace; amongst them a reckless, foppish Spaniard who carried a long rifle and smiled a shade too boldly at the queen’s ladies. The Cardinal’s ears pricked up when he heard that the others called him Aramis. 

Once the crisis had been averted, leaving a mess of rubble in the Louvre’s cellars but without any major disasters, he called some of his more reliable guards to his office and gave them discreet instructions. 

-/-

All four of them bore bruises from their escapades in the Louvre cellars, but none so severe that they were willing to forego an evening in one of the less disreputable taverns, especially if Athos was buying. He drank at twice the speed of the rest of them, but remained sharp enough to catch Porthos every time a card disappeared into his cuff. 

D’Artagnan watched sleepily, allowing Aramis to inspect the grazes on his wrists. He sipped the wine slowly, feeling the pressures of the last few days sink heavily into his limbs. The game wore on, and he gave up trying to follow the peculiar rules which the musketeers espoused. The rough wooden table started to look like a good place to put his head, just for a moment, as it had become rather a burden. 

Aramis, flirting half-heartedly with the barmaid, glanced up in time to see d’Artagnan sway slowly forwards. He darted a hand out to catch the young Gascon’s shoulder, and grinned at Porthos over his head. 

‘I do believe it’s past someone’s bedtime,’ he said.

Athos raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you get him back to Bonacieux’s?’

‘Of course,’ Aramis replied easily. A thought occurred to him. ‘I may take a detour on my way back,’ he added, shrugging roguishly in response to Athos’ implacable glare. 

‘Oh yeah?’ said Porthos. ‘Detour, is it? What’s her name?’

‘A gentleman never tells, my friend.’ He clapped Porthos on the shoulder, levering a pliant d’Artagnan to his feet with the other arm. ‘Watch yourself,’ he said in Porthos’ ear in a stage whisper, ‘Athos cheats at cards too.’

Athos threw a scrap of bread at him; it bounced harmlessly off his doublet and was soon snatched by the innkeeper’s yellow-eyed dog. Laughing, with one of d’Artagnan’s arms slung over his shoulder, Aramis left. 

-/-

Last night’s rain was back in force when they got outside, reviving d’Artagnan enough to walk alongside Aramis. He protested that he had no need of an escort, but Aramis merely shrugged, and insisted that it was on his way. 

In the ten minutes it took to reach the draper’s house, both of them were soaked, but d’Artagnan, hatless, had water running uncomfortably down his back underneath his doublet. He bid Aramis goodnight and hurried inside, just about managing to peel off his outer clothing before collapsing onto the bed. 

Outside, Aramis sped up, pushing his hat more firmly onto his head as he headed for St Germain. As he turned the corner, some flicker behind him made him spin around, but he could make out no movement in the poorly-lit street, and the rain’s beating on the top of his hat drowned out and distorted other sounds. Wondering if he, too, should be considering sleep rather than further exertion, he pressed on.

Another movement, this time not a mistake. He had, perhaps unwisely, left his sword and pistol at the Garrison, so he pulled his main gauche, spinning to catch the attacker’s heavy club against the dagger’s hilt. The force of the blow juddered up his arms, but he stepped into it, shoving forwards with his body and forcing the other man to dodge sideways to avoid his weapon. Aramis kicked him hard in the shin and he went down to one knee, only to meet the musketeer’s fist against his chin. The club skittered across the cobbles. Slightly off-balance, Aramis took a step back, trying to make out the face of the man who’d attacked him. Before he could do so, another movement to his right made him dodge sharply, but not quite out of the way. A heavy, blunt weapon caught him hard on the arm; the resulting burst of pain broke his concentration, and he dropped the main gauche with a curse. 

A third man lurched out of the shadows at that point, this one brandishing a pistol which he pointed at Aramis’ head. 

‘Stop there, musketeer.’

Aramis blinked, surreptitiously trying to locate the other two out of the corner of his eye. ‘There has been some mistake,’ he hedged, knowing full well that this was unlikely.

‘No mistake. We need to talk to you. Come with us. No trouble, and I might not shoot you.’ 

The man certainly had a way with words, Aramis thought. He was under no illusions that their purposes were benign – they had, after all, tried twice to render him insensible with a blow to the head before resorting to the pistol. This was a relatively respectable part of Paris; despite the late hour, the sound of an attack might well draw attention. Three or four streets over, it would be a different story: there, they could murder him as flamboyantly as they wished, and nobody would twitch, except perhaps to strip anything of value from his carcass.

The pistol was still pointed at him, and while he might be able to dodge the shot, this man had at least two accomplices at close range, one of whom already had reason to quarrel with Aramis. If he could slip past them all, he could make a run for it – Bonacieux’s was only a few streets away, and despite their short acquaintance, he was fairly sure he could rely on d’Artagnan for help. Though it would, he thought with a wince, only confirm Mme Bonacieux’s low opinion of him if he burst into her house at this hour with ruffians on his tail.

He bowed his head in mock courtesy, though without taking his eyes off the man with the pistol. ‘By all means,’ he said, and moved in the direction indicated by a sharp jerk of the pistol. The second it was no longer pointed straight at his body, he lunged.

The pistol went off, firing harmlessly into a wall, and Aramis’ weight took them both to the ground. He lashed out with fists and knees, trying to roll them to get the other man’s body between himself and the blows of his two accomplices. The man succeeded in gripping him by the throat, halting him enough for one of the others to twist his arm – the bruised arm, at that – sharply behind his back. Aramis felt his shoulder wrench out of joint and gasped raggedly. The tug on his injured arm produced a swoop of nausea, and he was pulled backwards. The man he had pinned lurched to his feet and landed a hard kick in his ribs. He collapsed backwards, and they advanced, raining blows on him. Clutching the bad arm to his chest, he raised the other on instinct to protect his head, trying valiantly to kick anyone who came close enough. 

The attackers blurred together into a many-legged nightmare beast, all heavy boots and rough fists, and he lost track of the blows. At one point, a boot dug into his stomach hard enough to make him choke out the good wine Athos had bought earlier in the evening. Someone yanked him halfway up by his hair, and shortly afterwards a heavy darkness exploded behind his eyes, and he remembered nothing else after that.

-/-

The rain had thinned to a morose drizzle by morning and it did nothing for Athos’ hangover as he slouched into the Garrison. Porthos and d’Artagnan were there already, eating porridge with an enthusiasm that turned Athos’ delicate stomach. Treville, with his usual perspicacity, appeared on the balcony as soon as Athos had slid into a seat. ‘You four! Upstairs.’

D’Artagnan hurriedly scraped up the last of his porridge, eager to respond. Athos frowned, glancing around the damp yard. ‘Where’s Aramis?’ he asked, directing his glare at Porthos. 

‘Perhaps Mme Marchand hid his breeches again,’ Porthos suggested, picking up his hat as he moved to follow d’Artagnan. 

One corner of Athos’ mouth twitched in spite of himself, and he trailed up the stairs after his comrades. 

‘Where’s Aramis?’ Treville snapped, as soon as the three of them were inside. 

‘He’s not here yet,’ d’Artagnan supplied, helpfully, at the same time that Porthos, louder, said ‘He’s on his way.’ 

Treville scowled between the two of them. ‘He’s lucky, on this occasion: the king has postponed his hunt because of the weather.’ Athos sighed in poorly disguised relief. Supervising the king’s enthusiastic but erratic attempts to rid the woods around Fontainebleau of any and all wildlife was a dull assignment at best. 

‘I need you all standing by in case it clears up, but for the time being it seems you have a free morning. Some firearms training might not go amiss, if Aramis deigns to show his face,’ Treville added, dividing his glare equally between Porthos and Athos. He reserved an approving nod for d’Artagnan, apparently exempting the new recruit from blame for Aramis’ exploits. 

They all murmured agreement and filed out of the office. In no great hurry, Porthos assembled the targets at one end of the yard, his eyes flitting to the gateway every few seconds. Eventually, he shuffled close to Athos. ‘It’s not like him to be this late,’ he said quietly. 

Athos nodded grimly. Despite their comrade’s tendency to get into scrapes in his off-duty hours, he was devoted to the regiment. The first few times Aramis had sloped off with some lady or other, Athos had been surprised, the next day, to find him sitting at the Garrison bright-eyed the following morning, cleaning his arquebus at the table in the yard.  
‘D’Artagnan,’ he called, as the younger man emerged from the armoury bearing an assortment of weapons. ‘Do you happen to know which way Aramis went, after he took you home last night?’ 

D’Artagnan blinked. ‘No. It was raining, so I didn’t wait to see him off. I... was under the impression that...’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I mean, he was going to visit a lady?’ he finished, talking very fast. He had blushed scarlet. ‘Perhaps he... stayed the night?’ 

Athos snorted, half-amused. ‘Most likely,’ said Porthos, but he looked edgy. 

‘But he came with you as far as Bonacieux’s?’ D’Artagnan nodded. 

‘I will go there, and see if I can deduce which way he went after he left you,’ Athos announced. D’Artagnan looked startled; Porthos, relieved. ‘Porthos, ask at Marchand’s, and at Adele Basset’s –‘

‘Adele Basset left Paris. Aramis said he couldn’t find a trace of her,’ Porthos interjected.

‘Not there, then. Marchand’s. And at Aramis’ lodging; perhaps he went home.’

D’Artagnan glanced between them, picking up on the latent tension. ‘I will wait here, then,’ he said. ‘For him to arrive.’ Porthos shot him a grateful look, already picking up his weapons. 

‘When he does, you tell him I’m going to kill him,’ he told d’Artagnan, and strode out on Athos’ heels. 

-/-

Mme Bonacieux opened the door with hands covered in flour, looking startled to see Athos standing at her threshold. 

‘Athos?’ she said blankly. 

‘My apologies for disturbing you, Madame,’ he said quickly. The courtesy sounded sincere but perfunctory from him, where from Aramis it always sounded like flirting. ‘I am looking for Aramis.’

Constance goggled at him. ‘Why are you looking for him here?’ she blurted. 

‘He walked d’Artagnan home last night. Apparently nobody has seen him since,’ Athos explained. 

She was half-tempted to point out that, if what she’d heard in the market was true, there were five or six different beds around the city where he might have ended up, but something stopped her. It might have been the tension in Athos’ bearing, or it might equally have been that she was touched by the revelation that Aramis had chaperoned the exhausted d’Artagnan to bring him safely under her roof. ‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said apologetically. He nodded brusquely and had half turned to go when she remembered something.

‘Athos – I was woken by a gunshot last night. Perhaps two hours after midnight. It sounded like it came from nearby.’

His lips thinned in concern. ‘Have you any idea which direction?’ he asked. 

Constance considered. ‘Towards the river, I think. I can’t be sure.’ She was twisting her fingers together agitatedly, scattering dislodged flour all over the doorstep. Athos nodded again, and strode away. 

-/-

Athos prowled the streets to the south of Bonacieux’s residence, a low hum of panic rising in his chest. There was no sign of Aramis. As he turned to try the other direction – it was difficult, at the best of times, to detect the location of a gunshot – he noticed the mud stirred up at one intersection as though by a skirmish. He moved closer, something else catching his eye. He reached gingerly into the gutter for the thing glinting at him. It was coated in muck, but it was, unmistakeably, Aramis’ main gauche. A punch of dread landed in his stomach. 

‘Athos!’ He spun, spooked. 

Porthos was speeding towards him, the earlier concern amplified on his face. ‘He wasn’t at Marchand’s last night. The maid who answered the door is sweet on him, she knew exactly who I meant, but she hasn’t seen him in a week. He’s not at home either.’

Athos raised the dagger wordlessly and Porthos faltered into silence. 

‘There’s no blood on it,’ Athos said bracingly. ‘He may have dropped it accidentally.’

Porthos glared at him. ‘You know as well as I do that he did no such thing.’ The main gauche was not a showy weapon, but Aramis’ was well-made: perfectly balanced, with a delicate fluted handle. He was fastidious about his weapons. 

Athos grunted. ‘We’ll find him. He may still be close by.’

They split up, paying particular attention to the narrow alleyways between houses. There were few people on the streets, the weather having kept most local residents indoors, but if there was – God forbid – a body in the street, it would have been found already were it on one of the main thoroughfares. 

Porthos’ strangled shout rang out some minutes later. Athos sprinted, one hand on his sword hilt. 

Aramis was slumped on his side in the mud of a dingy alleyway. He was pale except for an impressive collection of bruises. Porthos withdrew his hand from Aramis’ neck and exhaled noisily, nodding to Athos to confirm that their friend was, at least, alive. 

Athos jolted out of his shock, dropping to his knees on Aramis’ other side. 

‘Roll him onto his back. Carefully,’ he ordered tersely, his hands already at the opening of Aramis’ doublet in search of wounds. As soon as Porthos gripped his shoulder, however, Aramis shuddered violently and kicked him hard in the thigh. Athos bent over him. 

‘Aramis? It’s us. Open your eyes.’ 

Cursing, Porthos shuffled closer again. Aramis hissed in a sharp breath, coughed quietly and opened his eyes a crack. He almost immediately pressed them tightly closed. One hand twitched towards Porthos, who seized it immediately. Aramis’ eyes drifted open again, blinking drunkenly at the sky until he could focus. 

‘Porthos?’ he mumbled. 

‘I’m here. Athos too. What the hell happened to you?’

He groaned and muttered something that sounded like ‘there were three of them.’ Flopping heavily onto his back, he laboriously pushed up onto one elbow. Athos reached out in alarm to steady him as he tried to move to a sitting position, but Aramis flinched hard as soon as he tried to move his right arm and all but fell against Porthos. 

‘Easy!’ Porthos gingerly reached for his friend’s wrist. ‘Did they break your arm?’ His tone promised fierce retribution to the men responsible. 

‘No...’ Aramis shook his head slowly. 

‘Hold still, damn you,’ Athos told him firmly. Aramis submitted mildly as his friend searched his matted hair for blood, finding a nasty lump but no severe bleeding. He trembled, visibly struggling to stay still, when Athos pulled his doublet open and carefully pushed it back from the right shoulder. 

‘Out of joint,’ Aramis croaked, some of his lucidity returning. ‘The arm’s bruised, but not broken, I think.’ 

‘It needs setting,’ Athos said grimly. 

Aramis nodded unhappily. ‘You do it.’

‘I am not a surgeon.’ 

‘The surgeon’s a butcher. You’ve done it before.’ Aramis pressed stubbornly. 

It was a horrible process. Porthos helped Aramis to sit upright, but the change in elevation made him dizzy, and the deep breath he took to suppress the nausea made him cough. Bent double and clutching at his ribs with his good hand, he hacked up what sounded like half a lung, while Porthos helplessly rubbed his back, exchanging alarmed looks with Athos over his head. When the coughing finally subsided, Aramis still wouldn’t hear of waiting for the surgeon. Getting his doublet off the wounded shoulder left him white with pain, and Athos refused to attempt to repeat the process with his shirt, opting instead to cut the linen open from collar to cuff, exposing the swollen joint and a large, dark bruise. Porthos pulled Aramis against his chest and held him as tightly as he dared while Athos took the arm at wrist and elbow, rotated it upwards and pushed it mercilessly until the bones abruptly shifted around one another. Aramis jolted and made a strangled noise in his throat, and his head fell back onto Porthos’ shoulder. 

‘Has he fainted?’ Athos asked. 

‘No,’ Aramis gasped before Porthos could reply. ‘Tha – thank you.’ 

He was lying completely limp against Porthos, breathing strenuously and apparently disinclined to move. Athos hesitated. He was almost certain that his friend had further injuries – the ribs, in particular, were a concern – but he was also impatient to get out of the dingy alleyway. Porthos was cradling Aramis as gently as a mother with a newborn, but Athos could see him vibrating with tension. Porthos would want to know who was responsible for this, and once he knew, the men in question would never again find safety in Paris.

‘We should get him back to the garrison.’

Athos shook his head. ‘Bonacieux’s. It’s closer.’

Aramis started to mumble some protest about disturbing Constance, but the rest of it was lost in a yelp as they started to haul him to his feet. Athos ducked under his good arm, and with Porthos supporting him from the other side they managed to get him upright, but he sagged between them, blanching even whiter than he had before. 

‘Aramis?’ said Athos sharply. 

He took a moment to get his balance and then nodded tersely, swearing under his breath in Spanish. 

-/-

Constance tried to go back to her baking after Athos left, but an hour later she found herself staring distractedly at the dough under her hands, completely motionless. 

Worrying about musketeers was beginning to take up a lot of her time. First it had been d’Artagnan, passing out at her feet and getting into duels and thrown in jail and nearly blown up in the space of a few short weeks. Now, Aramis – smiling, infuriating Aramis - missing on the night that a gunshot disturbed the quiet. There was a good chance, she reminded herself, that he had had nothing to do with the shot, or that he had disposed of the attacker and swaggered off into the night in search of more pleasant company. Even if so, Constance knew this was only the tip of the iceberg: musketeers and trouble followed one another like needle and thread. As quickly as d’Artagnan had appeared in her life and taken up residence in her most secret imagination, the three rascals he had fallen in with had become part of the architecture of a life which was Constance’s, not just Madame Bonacieux’s. They were her friends, and a reminder that she was a real person, not just an accessory of her respectable husband. 

She was startled out of her anxious thoughts by a barrage of knocking. Twice, in one morning, she thought, and went to the door.

‘Pardon the intrusion, Madame Bonacieux,’ said Athos, somewhat hoarsely. ‘Might we prevail -?’

‘Get him inside, you idiots!’ she interrupted, moving back to let the six-legged shape of Athos, Porthos and Aramis into the house. ‘Here – on the table.’ She picked up the half-kneaded dough and shoved it in the oven to clear the table. 

She turned in time to see them hoist Aramis onto the table. He was pale and battered, in a state of dishabille that exposed a horribly bruised and swollen shoulder. ‘I – apologise –‘ he gasped out, catching her eye.

‘Shut up,’ Porthos told him, sharply. 

‘What happened?’ asked Constance. 

‘We are not entirely sure,’ Athos said, running his fingers over his comrade’s ribs. ‘If it was thieves, they left his purse untouched.’

‘Someone’s husband?’ Porthos suggested, eliciting a scowl from the patient. 

‘No. Trained – soldiers,’ Aramis said, his struggle to breathe making him uncharacteristically brusque. 

‘Red guards?’ said Athos. It would get them in trouble if they were found out, but it would hardly be the first time a group of Red Guards had tried to settle a score by attacking any musketeer who happened to walk abroad unaccompanied. 

‘Maybe,’ said Aramis. He coughed and winced hard at the jolt it sent through his ribs. ‘Not in uniform.’

Athos turned to Constance. ‘Madame, do you have anything we can use to wrap his ribs?’ She nodded and hurried to a cupboard for some fabric leftover from their most recent commission. 

‘Porthos – we need to inform Treville, and someone should let d’Artagnan know what has happened as well.’

Porthos looked reluctant, but he nodded and carefully released Aramis, not letting go until he was certain his friend was not about to keel over. ‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t give them any trouble,’ he said sternly to Aramis, and tipped his hat to Constance on his way out. 

Athos turned back to Aramis, tugging at his doublet to get it the rest of the way off. Aramis mumbled a protest.

‘Your ribs need wrapping, Aramis.’

Aramis opened his mouth to speak but only managed a feeble croak; frustrated, he snatched hold of Athos’ sleeve and apparently managed to convey his objection through eye contact alone. Sighing in apparent exasperation, Athos turned to Constance. 

‘Aramis is concerned that we are inconveniencing you,’ Athos told her patiently, though with the stormy expression of a man who has found himself surrounded by complete idiots. ‘And furthermore, unlikely as it may seem, he is concerned about the propriety of undressing in your kitchen.’ 

Aramis kicked him in the back of the leg. Constance stifled a laugh and hurried forwards, handing the roll of cloth to Athos. ‘Come here, you idiot,’ she said softly, helping him wriggle out of the doublet. The sight of his battered torso, improper or otherwise, was a shock to her. Involuntarily she laid a gentle hand on his good shoulder and looked at the dark bruises and angry scrapes marring his chest, side and stomach with some dismay. 

‘He will be alright, Madame,’ Athos said quietly. She glanced sideways at him and turned back to the patient: he had his lips pressed tightly together as if to suppress a cry but his eyes were wide and alert. It made him look disconcertingly young. 

Constance steeled herself and reached for the bowl of water and cloth that Porthos had left on the side. ‘Right then,’ she said. ‘Sit still.’

-/-

D’Artagnan was jolted out of his thoughts when Porthos barrelled back into the courtyard with a thunderous expression. 

‘Did you find him?’ he asked, stumbling to his feet.

‘We found ‘im,’ Porthos said darkly. ‘Lying in a gutter with his ribs kicked in. Come on, I need to tell the captain.’

D’Artagnan gaped, hurrying after him. ‘Is he... I mean, will he be alright?’

Porthos grunted noncommittally.

‘Who attacked him?’ he pressed anxiously.

Treville was at the door of his office; he took one look at Porthos’ face and gestured sharply to them both to come inside. 

‘What is it?’ he said, as soon as the door closed behind d’Artagnan. 

‘Aramis was attacked in the street last night. We think it was Red guards,’ said Porthos without preamble. Treville raised his eyebrows.

‘He said they were certainly trained soldiers, three of them, and that he didn’t know them by sight.’

Treville nodded judiciously. While it was possible that the attackers had been mercenaries, if they had attacked unprovoked and yet left Aramis alive it implied some sort of grudge; if it wasn’t personal, the likelihood was that the general, long-term rivalry between the two regiments was the cause. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he promised. ‘Is Aramis alright?’

‘Athos is with him at Mme Bonacieux’s. His shoulder was bad, and his ribs. I need to get back there, Captain,’ Porthos explained. D’Artagnan absorbed all this in some alarm. Though his report had been quick and businesslike, Porthos was practically humming with tension and suppressed fury. The unknown Red guards who had been responsible for the attack would be in a lot of trouble if they were ever identified, d’Artagnan thought. 

At Treville’s dismissal, he followed Porthos out into the damp courtyard. He was struck by a terrible thought and his face contorted in misery. 

‘This is my fault,’ he said abruptly to Porthos’ back. ‘If he hadn’t had to take me home, he would never have been attacked.’

Porthos turned to look at him in surprise. ‘Don’t be stupid. How could you have known?’

‘I didn’t. I just mean, if it hadn’t been for me...’

‘Forget it. Chances are they followed you from the tavern but didn’t fancy their chances against the both of you, so they waited till they could get him alone.’ His voice was murderous.

D’Artagnan nodded, somewhat reassured. ‘How is he?’

Porthos’ grim look softened very slightly. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go see him. Before he says something to make Constance slap him again.’ 

-/-

With his wounds cleaned, his ribs wrapped tightly and his arm bound up in a sling, Aramis looked, if not precisely healthy, then at least cared for. Since he refused to lie down, Constance steered him to her husband’s preferred chair and with Athos’ help lowered him into it. She found a faded shirt that Jacques no longer wore to replace Aramis’ filthy, torn one. When he attempted an elaborate pronouncement of thanks, he was swiftly overtaken by another fit of coughing. Ever-contradictory, Athos growled reproaches at him while tenderly stroking his back as Aramis struggled to get his breath back. Constance boiled water and herbs, sweetened the mixture with honey and passed it to him. He nodded and smiled his thanks this time, though from the corner of her eye she saw him pull faces at Athos at the sour taste when he thought she couldn’t see him. 

For the third time that day, a loud knock sounded on Constance’s front door. She let in Porthos and d’Artagnan. 

‘How you feeling?’ Porthos asked, heading for Aramis as soon as he entered.

‘He should be discouraged from talking,’ Athos cut in. Aramis glared at him, and Athos raised his eyebrows, unconcerned. Porthos relaxed palpably and nodded. ‘Two or three ribs may be cracked,’ Athos continued. ‘We’ll get the surgeon to look at him once we’ve returned to the garrison.’

‘We won’t let him bleed you,’ Porthos added in an undertone to Aramis, who looked grateful.

Constance glanced at d’Artagnan. He reached out and squeezed her hand. She was a little pale from the sight of Aramis’ bruises. Friendship with musketeers had introduced her to a world of violence that did not fit with her safe, respectable life. Still, it was comforting to watch them look after one another with such solicitude. With her life full of troublemaking musketeers, Constance felt paradoxically safer than she had in a long while.


End file.
